


Nostalgia

by Valya (grandSolovey)



Category: BioShock
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:25:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grandSolovey/pseuds/Valya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his return from Pauper's Drop, Jack finds himself giving in to some inexplicable urges. (Side story to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1067564">Batya</a>, post-chapter 8.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nostalgia

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't actually happen as far as the overall story is concerned but I got bullied into writing it anyway. Whoops.

**MAY 26, 1959 — 10:32 PM**

Jack knows that he only has himself to blame for it all, but it seems easier to place that blame on the scarf.

It was that scent, after all, that one scent he couldn’t place that nearly drove him into a frenzy.

Only _nearly_ , of course, as it had the strange effect of stilling him instead, of pushing him into an inexplicable calm. But he could only be calm for so long before it started to needle at him again, before it sent an itch over his skin that took him nearly everything he had to keep from scratching.

Sometimes, everything he had wasn’t nearly enough.

The scarf is tightly balled in his clenched fist, pressed against his mouth and nose as he lies back in his bed and sucks in breath after breath of its metallic, smoky scent. But beneath the metal and smoke still lies something else, that something else he can’t identify or begin to describe, that _something_ which speaks to him of longing and despair even as he rubs the flat of his palm down the front of his pants.

It hardly follows, he might think, that any sensation of _despair_ could drive him to do such a thing. But it’s more than despair: it’s the sensation—no, the _knowledge_ that there is something he lacks, something fundamentally missing from his life, something deep within the darkness of his mind that he can no longer hope to reach.

_“I do believe in you.”_

Perhaps Atlas could be the one to help him reach it.

_“I believe that you can be far more than what your father made you to be . . .”_

Atlas. Atlas, Atlas . . .

Before he knows it, Jack’s pants are undone and his hand is working over his cock with short, unsteady strokes. The scent of the scarf is thick in his lungs, curling deep, deeper than anything else in his life so far.

Atlas had called himself a friend, perhaps the only friend he’s ever known . . .

_“I believe that you have the power to become Rapture’s salvation.”_

Who else had ever believed in him like that?

He tightens his grip, jerks his hips with shallow thrusts into his own hand, but still, still, it’s not enough. Nearly, but it’s not enough. His cock is slick and already straining for release, but he still needs more.

_“You’ll most certainly have a friend in me . . .”_

A soft whimper escapes his throat as he bites down on the scarf, as his back arches and his fist pumps with desperation. _Atlas, Atlas._ Who else would ever believe in him— Who else would ever be a _friend_ to him, to help him cast light on that dark mire in the pit of his mind—

Jack releases the scarf with a cry as climax overtakes him, sending waves of pleasure jolting through his bones and spatters of wet warmth over his hand and chest. His entire body curls outward as he basks in it, milks it for as long as he can, the sensation—no, the _surety_ that Atlas will be the one to guide him.

But when the afterglow fades, he soon finds that the darkness remains—the darkness, and the scent that even now insists upon his attention to that darkness.

Nothing has changed, except for the feelings of guilt and shame that now work their way into his conscious mind. But any amount of guilt or shame, Jack quickly decides, is preferable to the thought that even Atlas’s guidance might not be enough to find what pieces will make him whole.


End file.
